


cupid carries a gun

by cweepa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Hallucinations, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4212975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cweepa/pseuds/cweepa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe, just maybe, it's too good to be true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cupid carries a gun

**Author's Note:**

> i don't think i'll ever get over that disastrous excuse of a season finale. and this probably isn't that much help but it seems like a good time for me to start contributing to this fandom.

After breaking up with Mickey, Ian finds himself always wandering towards the dugouts.  
  


He's not sure why, exactly. It's not like he's trying to find Mickey, or even cling to the tattered remains of their relationship. He is one hundred percent convinced that he had forgotten completely about what happened the past few years, Mickey included.  
  


_Especially_ Mickey.

And yet, for some reason that he can't comprehend,  he finds himself being constantly drawn to that little shelter near the baseball field where they had fucked, kissed and spent so many hours just talking and getting high. Hell, he doesn't  even _like_ that place.

He doesn't do much there, actually. Sometimes he rolls a joint, sometimes he just stares at the sky, sometimes he naps. He never brings anyone with him, though. And he definitely doesn't think of what he used to do there, with who he used to hang with.  
  


He doesn't.  
  


Over the next few weeks, he develops some sort of a routine. Wake up, wash up, eat, proceed to spend the rest of his day curled up in that little shelter. Fiona stares at him suspiciously, asks after him, but he shrugs it off. He has become rather proficient at lying.

Because fate is a bitch and likes to shit on his miserable existence, a month or so after he starts hanging around the dugouts, he finds someone already there by the time he has arrived.

A short, dark haired someone with blue eyes and inked knuckles that Ian knew better than his own.

"Mickey," he calls out hesitantly, fighting the urge to bolt. Mickey looks up, eyes widening.  
  


"Gallagher?"  
  


In all honesty, ever since the breakup, Ian hadn't exactly made it a point to check up on Mickey. His last memory of Mickey was him getting chased by Sammi, running away from that fucking gun-wielding bitch.

She had since fucked off to god knows where.  

Ian had assumed that Mickey was okay. Heck, he was pretty sure that Mickey was fine. Mandy didn't call him to scream about her brother, which probably meant Mickey had moved on, was maybe even fucking some chick in his bed while Ian idled on a bench.

The idea of Mickey moving on so easily made his stomach lurch unpleasantly.

Now, however, he was a hundred percent positive that Mickey was okay. He looked the same as he did a month ago, maybe slightly paler, maybe a little cleaner.

Ian, on the other hand, knew that he probably looked like shit.  
  


"What are you doing here?" Ian asks, and Mickey shrugs . "I could ask you the same."

"I come here every day now," Ian says. "What's your excuse?"

Mickey fixes him with a stare, and looks thoughtful. "I guess I'm a bit lost," he says finally, and Ian doesn't reply, instead choosing to sit beside Mickey.

Ian offers him a joint.

Mickey declines.

It's unnerving, seeing Mickey like this. Never once had he seen Mickey turn down free weed.

"You okay?" Ian asks, and Mickey barks out a laugh.

"Y'think?" he replies shortly, bitterly.

They don't speak for the rest of the hour.

 

It becomes a new pattern. By the time Ian turns up at the dugouts,  Mickey would be there, and Ian would occupy himself while Mickey sat there silently. He never brought anything along, not even a beer or a magazine. And yet, he somehow finds a way to occupy himself. Mostly by staring at Ian. It's slightly creepy, but really, to his surprise, Ian doesn't find himself minding that much.

 

"I'm sorry, you know," Ian says one day, and Mickey smiles. It doesn't quite reach his eyes,

"I know."

"You can hit me if you want."

Mickey bites his lip. "It's fine."

Ian doesn't know what else to say.

 

Sometime during the first week of the second month, Mickey turns to Ian and asks, "Did you start taking your meds?"

"Fuck off," Ian doesn't even bother looking up from his magazine.

"I guess not, then," Mickey says softly.

 

Their little routine continues well into half a year. They would speak a little more, Mickey would drop hints and suggestions for Ian to get back on his medication , and Ian would almost always get angry or just flat out ignore him. Somewhere along the line, Ian starts to feel guilt. And regret. It's an ugly feeling, chipping away at his insides. It feels like a iron fist crammed into his ribcage.

It might be too late, but he wants Mickey back _. His_ Mickey.  This Mickey is quiet and reserved. He listens more than he speaks, smiles too often, and never, ever touches Ian. He stays a good half meter away from Ian, in fact.

This Mickey isn't Mickey. It's unsettling.

 

At the  same time, Ian feels slightly grateful for those few hours spent every day near the field. It feels almost as though they are rebuilding their crumbled relationship, replacing burnt out walls with new bricks and cement.

They have yet to furnish the house, though.

 

"I miss you," Ian says one day. "I...I miss you."

"You see me every day," Mickey says dryly, and Ian shakes his head.

"It's not the same, man. I don't know, I just-"

"It's okay, Ian."  Mickey says patiently, and Ian turns to face him.

"It's not fucking okay," he snaps. "This..this isn't working, Mickey. And you know it."

Mickey stares at his knuckles, rubbing the inked skin, and sighs. "I'm sorry."

And the guilt hits Ian like a tidal wave. Fuck. "Don't...don't fucking apologize, Mick. It's not your fault. It's just me," he says. Mickey gnaws at his lip.

"If you could turn back time, would you?" he asks finally,  and Ian laughs bitterly.

"I'll end up hurting you again," Ian says. "I hurt everyone around me. Shit. I'm just like fucking Monica, aren't I?"

"Don't fucking say that," Mickey says, eyes solemn. "You're nothing like her."

"I hurt you, Mickey." Ian replies, frustrated.

"But you saved me."

 

Ian takes to bringing some food along with him, be it a hastily thrown together sandwich or Fiona's sad attempt at cookies or greasy fries from the diner that they used to go to together. He offers them to Mickey.

"I'm not hungry,' Mickey says. He gives the same response every time.

"It's free food," Ian says, stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth, doing his best impression of a chipmunk. "Want a beer?"

"Should you be drinking?" Mickey counters, his gaze unreadable. Ian rolls his eyes.

"Stop caring so much, Jesus," Ian says, grinning. He tries for a playful shove, but Mickey shies away quickly and Ian finds himself grabbing at empty air.

"Sorry," Mickey says quickly, staring at the ground.

Ian doesn't respond, tries not to let Mickey see the hurt in his eyes and instead pushes a bottle towards Mickey anyway.

Mickey doesn't touch the bottle.

 

"Why do you insist on keeping me company?"

"Who says I'm here for you?" Mickey says, grinning wickedly. "I could be here to enjoy the scenery." He waves vaguely at the empty pitch. A candy wrapper flies past them merrily, carried by the wind.

"Right," Ian says dryly. "Scenery."

"I didn't mean that scenery," Mickey says slyly, staring at Ian, who flushes.

"You bastard," Ian says, laughing.

"But you love me anyway," Mickey chirps automatically, and stops. "Fuck. I'm sor-"

"Don't. It's...it's fine, actually. It's fine."

He smiles at Mickey. It's the first time he has really felt something in months.

 

"Would you like to try it again?" Ian asks. It's a cold morning, and frost is creeping up his spine. He doesn't get how Mickey can just sit there with so few layers on without freezing to death.

"Try what?" Mickey asks.

"You know what I'm talking about," Ian replies, and scoots closer to Mickey. "Our relationship."

Mickey flinches away from Ian's wandering hand. "Don't touch me," he says softly. There's no malice in his voice, though. He just sounds tired.

"Just give me one more chance," Ian pleads. Mickey sighs.

"Will you take your meds?"

Ian's face darkens almost instantly. It's as though someone had flipped a switch in his head, turning on an aggressive defense mechanism that ran over everything in its path.

"Is that all that matters to you?" Ian snaps. "If I take my fucking medicine or not?"

"It will help you," Mickey says patiently, and Ian's face darkens.

"Fuck you," he says, voice trembling. "I thought you loved me."

"I did," Mickey whispers. "I do."

"But not me," Ian says. "Not me, with my...my bipolar shit and all this fucking baggage, you don't."

"I do,"  Mickey says, his face crumbling ever so slightly. "Look, Ian..I just want to help y-"

"You know what?" Ian stands up. "I don't need your fucking help. I don't need you."

"Ian, wait-"

"Have a nice life, Mickey," Ian says, and leaves. He doesn't turn around.

 

After two days of stewing, it hits Ian that perhaps he was a little too harsh. It's only been two days, and he already misses Mickey.  Fiona tells him to stop moping around the house. He finally cracks, and goes to the dugouts on the third day. Mickey doesn't show up. He doesn't show up on the fourth, fifth or sixth day.

He doesn't appear for a week. Ian plucks up the courage, and decides to grow a pair and just fucking visit his house.

He goes on a Saturday morning, and hopes that Mickey is home. With his crappy luck, Mandy answers the door instead.

 

"Ian?" She looks surprised, which quickly morphed into disgust. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Is Mickey in?"

"Is this some kind of fucking joke? Is this funny to you, Gallagher?"

"No, it's no-it's not a fucking joke. I need to see Mickey. I...I did something wrong, I fucked up, Mandy. I need to make things right."

Mandy stares at him for a second, and her faces twists into an ugly scowl. "You're eight months too late," she snarls, and slams the door shut. Ian bangs on the door for a good five minutes before she opens it again.

"Fucking leave, ohmygod," she snaps. "You've done enough."

"I need to see Mickey," Ian insists. "Please, Mandy."

"You have no fucking idea, do you?" Something crosses her face. It's almost like pity.

"Know what?"

"Fuck you," Mandy whispers, voice trembling. "Just...go away, Ian. Please."

"Why?" Ian says, slightly frantic. "Mands, what's wrong?"

Mandy blinks a few times, bites her lip. "Don't you fucking know? Mickey's fucking dead. He died, Ian. He fucking _died._ "  
  
  


*  
  
 

Ian finds out that Mickey died eight months ago, the day they broke up,  from a bullet wound  straight to the back of his head. He died because Ian didn't try to at least hold Sammi back, didn't try to help him at all.

He died because he loved Ian.

 

Ian finds himself returning to the dugouts that very night, after Mandy tearfully broke the news to him. He doesn't know what he expects to find. The small shelter is cold without Mickey. It's dark and damp. Now he knows why Mickey never seemed affected by his surroundings, why he was always there before him, why he didn't touch Ian. ....

....because he couldn't. Mickey didn't exist anymore. He hadn't existed for eight months.

"Am I going crazy?" he wonders. "Hey, Mick, tell me this is just some fucked up prank you and Mandy are pulling. You're not really dead, are you?"  
  


Silence.  
  


"Come on, you fucker," Ian chokes out. "Fucking reply me!"  
  


The wind rushes through his ears, hollow and empty. It is vaguely reminiscent of how he feels.  
  


"I loved you, you know," Ian says softly, as though Mickey could hear him. "I still do. I'm sorry, Mickey."

Ian sits there for god knows how long, losing track of time. As though Mickey might just suddenly appear again.

_"Again,"_ Ian thinks bitterly. Fuck. He was never there to begin with, was he?

He goes home after it gets dark, after his family had finished dinner and Fiona was drying the last of the dishes.

"Hey, Ian," she says, surprised. "Seems like ages since I last saw you." She squints at him, and a look of concern passes through her features. "Are you okay?"

"I've been busy," Ian says vaguely. He leans over the counter. "Hey, um, Fiona," he begins, and she looks at him questioningly. 

Ian swallows.

"Where did you keep my lithium?"

 

He can almost picture Mickey smiling.

 

**Author's Note:**

> leave a review, maybe? (:


End file.
